


The Bathroom Door

by nerigby96



Category: Martin and Lewis
Genre: Age Difference, Birthday, Childishness, Dirty Jokes, Drinking, Drunkenness, Fluff, Friendship, Hotels, Intimacy, M/M, Peeping, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Shaving, Singing, Understanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21911677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerigby96/pseuds/nerigby96
Summary: New York, 1944Sonny still hasn’t returned from wherever he disappeared to last night, so Dean knows the eye he spotted through the crack in the door belongs to the kid.
Relationships: Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin
Comments: 9
Kudos: 22





	The Bathroom Door

i.  
He’s almost through shaving when he spots something in the mirror. Rather than stop or even hesitate, his hand retains its steady rhythm, and he glances back at his reflection, trying to figure out what to do – if anything. Sonny still hasn’t returned from wherever he disappeared to last night, so Dean knows the eye he spotted through the crack in the door belongs to the kid. _Peeping_ , he thinks and sneaks another look. It’s gone. Maybe the kid realised he was caught. Dean wonders if he ought to feel a little uncomfortable, maybe a little mad. Isn’t that how a fella should react to something like this?

 _Aw, come on, Dino._ He puts down the razor and starts wiping his face. _The kid’s a little different, but that don’t mean you got a little_ guardone _on your hands here._

“A little different,” he muses. _A little… irregular?_

He shakes his head, mad at himself for even thinking it. He splashes on some aftershave, and by the time he’s walking out of the bathroom he’s made a decision.

The kid’s sitting on the bed, apparently engrossed in one of Dean’s comic books. He looks pretty normal, except… except Dean thinks there’s maybe a little colour high in his cheeks, and maybe he’s breathing a little heavy for a guy who’s just been sitting there.

And isn’t it just a little strange that he waits a beat before he looks up? It took Sonny pointing it out one night for Dean to notice, but it’s like the kid’s wired to him somehow. He’s always kind of twitchy around Dean, glancing over, like he’s checking his pal’s still there. Now every time they’re together, Dean plays a little game with himself; he’ll deliberately glance away from the kid and bets the kid’ll be looking at him when he finally glances back.

So far he’s won every time.

Now, sitting cross-legged on Dean’s bed, the kid apparently takes a second to notice he’s come back. Then he’s smiling, but it’s small, a little nervous, Dean thinks. And then he’s looking back at the comic book.

_Andante, Dino._

“Jer, were you—”

The doorknob rattles. The kid starts; Dean’s head turns; and Sonny walks in, launches into a story from last night. In the middle of it, Dean glances at the kid, who’s already looking at him. He smiles, and the kid beams. Then he’s squawking comments in response to their friend’s tall tale, and Dean finally relaxes.

ii.  
The next night, after their respective shows, Dean and Jerry sit for a while in the bar. They’re watching Sonny try his luck with a girl way out of his league, and Dean has to kick the kid’s ankle every few seconds just to make sure he keeps his mouth shut.

“What is this kicking all of a sudden? The whole leg you’re breaking.”

Dean chuckles into his glass and kicks again for good measure.

“ _Ow_. Listen— _ouch_. Dean, listen. There are _rules_ for this kinda stuff.”

“What’s that?”

“You didn’t know? Well, maybe there’s only one rule.”

“Lay it out, kid.”

“You bruise me, you buy me.”

“What’ll that set me back? A nickel? Two cents?”

“You beast.”

The kid’s hotel is on the other side of town, so Dean says he should stay over again. On their way out, Sonny slinks over, an unmistakable air of rejection about him. The kid’s eyes sparkle, and his mouth flaps open.

“ _Don’t._ ” Sonny stares daggers. He shoves past them and out on to the street. Dean glances at the kid, who looks a little taken aback, maybe even a little angry, and makes a move to go after Sonny.

Dean holds his elbow. The kid softens. They look at each other for a second, and then they follow their friend.

Back at the hotel, Sonny climbs into bed with not a word. Dean shrugs at Jerry and follows suit. The kid clambers up from the foot of the bed and snuggles down between the other two. He’s taken off his socks and deliberately runs his freezing toes over their calves. Dean kicks him again and Sonny – reluctantly, Dean thinks – sniggers.

Spurred on, Jerry sighs theatrically and declares in a loud, trumpeting voice that he’s always dreamed of being in bed with two Italians, and gosh, if his rabbi could see him now. Dean clamps a hand over his mouth while Sonny convulses with laughter, muffling it with little success in the pillow. Their neighbour pounds on the wall, promising something worse if they keep it up. Jerry licks Dean’s palm and in his second of freedom assures the fella next door that he’s more than happy to have him join them. Dean practically climbs on top of the kid to keep him quiet. Sonny has to bite the pillow until the angry shouts next door die down.

A kind of stillness settles. Sonny shudders intermittently with the memory of the joke, but he’s able to keep himself under control. He’s on his side, facing the door, and Dean’s glad of it, glad he doesn’t see how the kid stares up at him, how Dean can’t find the words to apologise and climbs off sheepishly. They’ve switched positions, so now the kid’s on the outside.

“You’re so strong, Mr Martin,” he says wistfully, so soft Dean knows it’s just for him. “If I’d known you’d be so rough I woulda made that joke before.”

“Jer—”

“I’ll think of a worse one for tomorrow.”

“Kid, shut up now.”

He shuts up. Dean lets out a breath. As he drifts towards sleep, the kid speaks again, serious now: “I was only kidding, Dean.”

Dean sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

“I didn’t really—”

“Yeah, I know, kid. Go to sleep now, will ya?”

“Sure, Dean.”

Under the covers, Dean feels the kid’s hand reach for him. He squeezes it briefly. Then he turns away from him, thinking about that hazel eye he spotted through the crack in the bathroom door.

The next morning, Sonny gets up early.

“Off to see a man about a dog,” he claims.

“Or a woman about a—” Dean seizes the kid before he can finish it, sending Sonny out once again hysterical.

The kid turns sparkling eyes on Dean, who sighs deeply and climbs out of bed.

“Only just woke up and already I’m exhausted,” he says. “This kid.”

“Don’t be sore, Dean,” Jerry says. He gets on his knees and hugs him from the side. Dean rolls his eyes but wraps his arms around the kid’s skinny frame. A mistake, he realises, because Jerry takes the opportunity to lick his face ecstatically.

Dean grimaces and shoves him away, but gently, so the kid can see he doesn’t really mean it; Jerry flops back on the mattress, delighted and giggling.

“ _Un po’ di fuori_ ,” Dean mutters, shaking his head.

Jerry looks at him. “I know you’re sayin’ somethin’ mean, but you’re ten times handsomer when you talk Itralian, so I forgive you.”

Dean laughs, _really_ laughs, has to lean against the wall and hold his stomach. Jerry sits up and positively beams. Dean remembers what he thought about him, about the eye in the crack of the door, and feels a stab of guilt.

 _He’s just a kid, Dino._

The laughter trickles away, and they slip into a comfortable silence. Dean heads to the bathroom, casually leaves the door open a few inches, and goes about his business. When he comes back, he finds the kid still sitting on the bed, still smiling, but now Dean’s sure his cheeks are flushed.

iii.  
Maybe a month goes by. Dean’s not really keeping track. He sees the kid twice. The first time is brief; the kid’s voice screeches out across the audience, but Dean sings through it, not missing a beat, and afterwards the kid hugs him so tight he thinks he might have broken a rib. The second time, Dean’s playing the Glass Hat, and they meet at the bar after Dean’s set. The kid’s different today, even more excited than usual, and he drags Dean around town, begs for a malted, some halvah, a piggyback ride.

“Dean, Dean.”

“Yes, yes?”

The kid bounces on his back.

“What were you holding tonight in your hand?”

Dean chuckles. “You wanna take that again?”

“You talk the way you want, I talk the way I want.”

“All right. Get down, I’ll show ya.”

The kid slides off his back and leans close to see what Dean has in his pocket. They’re almost back at the Belmont, huddled beneath a lamppost. The kid’s eyes go wide as Dean shows him the little white cross he was clutching not two hours ago. Dean watches him, amazed by how quiet he’s become; you’d think he’d never seen one before. In fact, without the kid’s incessant chatter, the whole night seems almost silent, peaceful. The orange incandescence from the lamppost catches in the kid’s eyelashes.

“Pretty,” breathes the kid. A white plume mists the air. “Can I touch it?”

“Sure.”

He strokes the small talisman with an index finger. “Is it lucky?”

“I don’t know, kid.” He puts it away and keeps his hands deep in his pockets. “Makes me feel better, I guess.” He looks away. He wishes the kid would ask him a question he knows the answer to.

After a moment, Dean steps out of the warm glow and back into the cold. The kid follows close by, back to chewing his ear off. They walk into the Belmont, and the kid follows Dean like a puppy up to his room; Dean knows his hotel’s on the other side of town and doesn’t have the heart to send him away. As he shuts the door behind them, a wave of fatigue washes over him, and he falls on to the bed without turning on the light.

The kid shuffles past – hardly any room to move in this shoebox; how it also manages to fit a couch and a chest of drawers is a mystery – and tries to open the window.

“Kid, it’s stuck.”

He grunts, digs his nails into the wood.

“Kid, stop, it’s bust. Doesn’t open.”

He huffs, lightly thumps the glass.

“What’s the problem? So cold out. Why d’ya wanna open the window?”

“So I can throw myself out.”

“What? Kid, I…” He sighs, rubs his face. He’s so tired, too tired for this. “C’mere.”

Jerry goes to him and plops neatly into his lap.

“ _Ehi_ , _ehi_.” He feels a surge of discomfort, maybe even anger, and sees something flicker on the kid’s face. “What is this? Whaddaya doin’?

“Sitting,” he says, grinning. “You’re comfy, boy.”

Dean feels the kid’s bones sticking into his thighs.

“Don’t be mad, bubbe.” His fingers are gently tugging the curls at the nape of Dean’s neck. Dean can’t understand what’s happened here, how it’s so different all of a sudden.

“I’m not… I’m not mad.” _Bubbe?_ He doesn't think he's ever heard the kid call him that before, and he doesn’t know what it means exactly, but a part of him gets the message. “Get off a sec, kid. Lemme readjust here.”

The kid gets up. Dean kicks off his shoes and shuffles back to sit against the headboard, legs outstretched. Then he sighs and pats his thigh. “All right, kid.”

Jerry leaps on top of him. Dean exaggerates a grunt and waits for him to settle, which he does, with his knees against Dean’s hips. Then he’s off again at breakneck pace. Dean finds it remarkably easy to keep up with the kid’s train of thought, and he even manages to get a couple words in edgewise. He raves about Dean’s show, about his own, asks for dates, tries to figure out when they’ll next be playing near each other. He giggles over some line Dean adlibbed in his set and impersonates him. Dean laughs, surprised and delighted, and the kid’s so pleased he all but lights up the room. As he talks, the kid musses Dean’s hair with one hand and tries to feed him chunks of halvah with the other. Dean gently bats him away. The conversation never breaks rhythm.

Then, all at once, the kid stops. He just… stops. His mouth closes, and his hands fall. For once, he’s not looking at Dean. There’s a moment of silence. Then he hugs him fiercely.

“Dean.” His lips brush Dean’s ear.

“Yeah?”

“What time is it?”

Dean turns his head, and has to lean forward a little – holding gently to the kid – to check the clock.

“Past one,” he says.

“Oh.” He falls silent again. Dean feels the thud of his heart. Then he whispers, “It was my birthday yesterday.”

 _Oh._ It all makes sense now. _Why didn’t I know?_ Did _I know? Did he tell me and I forgot?_ Dean doesn’t think so, but it certainly sounds like him. _Christ, kid, you gotta speak up._

But he is speaking: “Dean?”

“What?”

“Will you do me something?”

“Sure, kid.”

He nuzzles close. “Sing Happy Birthday to me.”

 _Sing_ , he thinks.

So he sings, and it comes out in Italian. He sings soft, right into the kid’s ear, but loud enough so it isn’t a whisper, loud enough that the kid can hear the familiar melody. When he’s finished, he gently coaxes the kid to sit back so they can look at each other. The kid’s smiling, thank God.

“Thanks, Dean.” He looks bashful. It’s sweet.

“Anytime,” Dean says. “So long as it’s only once a year.”

The kid laughs softly. He looks at Dean and chews his lips, frowning. Then, taking his time, he says, “ _Hai una bella voce._ ”

Dean’s eyebrows go up in delight. “Who taught you that?”

“It’s a secret. Did I get it right?”

“You got it perfect.” Without thinking, he touches the kid’s face. “ _Non sapevo fosse il tuo compleanno. Mi dispiace._ ”

“What’s that mean?” He’s leaned into Dean’s hand, eyes half-lidded.

“It’s a secret.”

He narrows his eyes, so Dean adds, “Don’t worry. It’s somethin’ good.”

“Okay.” The kid yawns. “I trust you.” He shuffles closer so he can hug Dean again.

“So how old are you now?” he asks. “Twelve, thirteen?”

The kid giggles. “Eighteen,” he says.

“Ah, you’re gettin’ up there. Be drinkin’ soon.”

Dean feels the face he pulls against his skin. “No I will not. Disgusting.” Dean strokes the nape of his neck. The kid yawns again and asks, “Can I sleep here tonight?”

“What, in my bed or in my lap?”

Jerry laughs. “In your _room_ , wise guy. The couch is fine.”

“Sure, kid. Whatever you want.”

“Thanks, Dean.”

He’s drifting off; Dean can feel it happening and gently shakes him.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I’ll move, Dean.”

But he doesn’t. He’s asleep in seconds. Dean manages to move the kid’s legs so he’s not straddling him anymore, but he’s still in his lap, just side saddle now. Even that is too much effort; Dean yawns, leans back against the headboard and dozes, slipping in and out of consciousness to check on the kid, hoping to move him before either of them is fully awake, but giving up and falling back to sleep every time.

At around noon, Jerry stirs. Dean thinks he instinctively nuzzles closer, and then his eyes drift open. He blinks against the sunlight and sits up. Blearily, he looks at Dean, then at their situation.

“Uh… Dean?”

“Yes?” he asks casually.

“Am I dreaming?”

“Do you wanna be?”

“Mm.” Jerry slips off his lap and lies beside him, head at Dean’s feet. He stretches, yawns, knuckles sleep from his eyes. “Was I a good boy, Dean?” he asks a little dreamily. Dean thinks there’s more anxiety there than he’s letting on.

“The best,” he says softly, and he sees the blush rise in the kid’s cheeks before he has a chance to look away.

Dean gets up. He picks up his toiletry bag and goes into the tiny bathroom, leaving the door wide open.

iv.  
Another day. Maybe a month later. Who knows? Who cares? They’re in a club somewhere, sitting in a booth. Dean is in the process of single-handedly drinking the club out of scotch, while Jerry sips on his second Shirley Temple. Conversation was easy, but now it’s dried up. Dean glares into his tumbler, sucks alcohol between his teeth. He watches the kid, who’s quieter than usual. _Because of me_ , he thinks and hates that he thinks that, hates that it’s true, and finishes his drink.

“Why’re ya watchin’ me?”

“Huh?”

“Keep watchin’ me.” He hates every word that comes out of the mouth that reeks of scotch, but keeps going. “Why?”

“What… what do you mean?”

“In the bathroom.” He hates that he’s said it. He thinks about the kid’s birthday, the morning after, how he lay on the bed with his head hanging off the end, eyes on the bathroom as Dean went about his routine. It was a shitty thing to do, Dean knows. Setting a test ( _or a trap_ ) for the kid like that. But he had to know, had to be sure he wasn’t imagining it. But why? Why did he have to be sure? Who gave a shit if the kid looked in sometimes?

_But there’s a difference, Dino. Lookin' in once out of curiosity, whatever. Hangin' out in your room while you get ready don’t mean shit. Sleepin' the night in your lap is somethin' else, isn’t it?_

_Is it? It doesn’t have to be. He’s a kid. He was sad and lonely and glad that someone was nice to him for once. Who cares where he fell asleep?_

The kid flushes. “O-oh.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Oh.” _What’s the matter with you, Dino?_ He hates how he sounds, hates how he keeps knocking back scotch, hates how the kid’s shrunk in on himself.

“I’m just… It’s interesting is all.”

“Interesting?” He forces himself to sip instead of gulp and tries to focus on the kid.

“It’s all that… stuff you have. The aftershave and the brushes and creams and everything.” He shrugs and bows his head, bashful. _Cute_ , Dean thinks, and then shoves it away. “I don’t know about all that.”

“Maybe you’d know about all that if you spent less time on your hair and more on your face.”

A little braver, the kid asks, “You don’t like my hair, Dean? I make it all special for you.” He bats his eyelashes, and Dean snorts into his glass.

“Your hair, kid. Do what you want.”

After another drink, Dean staggers out of the booth. The kid grabs him, wraps an unexpectedly strong arm around his back, and hauls him out of the club.

Back in Dean’s room, the kid finally lets him go, and Dean tumbles to the bed with a grunt. He lies spread-eagled and stares at the ceiling. He feels the kid standing nearby, feels the kid hesitate.

_Does he wanna leave?_

_Does he wanna stay?_

Dean makes the kid’s decision for him. “C’mere,” he says.

“Dean, I—”

“Here.”

Jerry goes to him. Dean gently pulls him down to lie beside him on the bed.

“Dean, what—”

“ _Shhhh_.” Dean hugs him and dimly wishes they turned out the light. “Kid – do I smell bad?”

“Like a brewery.”

“That’s bad, right?”

“Mm.” The kid’s a little stiff; Dean wonders if he’s gone too far here. Then Jerry says, “It’s not so bad.” His voice is soft, thoughtful. His arms slip around Dean’s neck. “I guess you’re not mad, then.”

“Who’s mad?” Dean tightens his grip on the kid. “Not me.”

“I mean about the bathroom.” He’s hidden his face in Dean’s shoulder.

“Oh.” Dean sighs; it catches in his throat as the kid’s fingers slide into his hair. “Oh, no, I’m not mad. You can watch if you want.”

Jerry giggles. “Better be careful with that. I’ll start watchin’ other things, too.”

“ _Verme_ ,” he says, but kindly, so the kid knows he doesn’t mean it, even if he doesn’t know the word. He goes to speak again, but the feel of those slender fingers in his hair is a little too much. He drifts, the bed a boat unmoored, floating on an endless boozy sea.

“Dean.” The kid’s voice, the kid’s skinny body, like a life ring.

“Hm?”

“You’re lucky your breath smells so bad.”

Dean chuckles. “Why’m I lucky?” The thumb of his right hand strokes absently at the kid’s waist.

“Because if scotch didn’t make me sick I’d kiss you now.”

Dean’s eyes flicker open. The kid’s face is so close. No trace of that Idiot voice he does, no nance lilt to his tongue. His normal voice – always Dean is surprised by how mature he can sound – saying something Dean can’t comprehend.

 _You got it wrong_ , he thinks. _L’alcol mi stai confondendo._

He wets his lips. “I’m, uh.” He clears his throat. “I’m a little worse for wear here, Jer. Think I musta misheard you.”

“Musta,” he says softly, a strange little smile on his lips.

Gently, Dean extricates himself and rolls over. After a second, the kid flicks off the light and lies back down, keeping his distance.

 _You misheard_ , Dean thinks. _You imagined it. Or he was fucking with you. He knows you’re drunk. He just wanted to joke around a little._

He’s drunk enough that this convinces him, and he falls asleep with relative ease.

When he wakes, he stumbles into the bathroom, head throbbing. He swallows two aspirin, strips and showers. Then he pulls his underwear back on and roots around in his toiletry bag for his razor. His head’s a little clearer now, and when he wipes the clouded glass he sees the kid reflected. He doesn’t turn, just meets his eyes.

“All right?” he asks.

The kid nods. Dean watches him hesitate, not quite brave enough to cross the threshold. He settles for leaning his head on the door frame, watching.

v.  
They don’t discuss it. Dean doesn’t want to, and he thinks the kid realises. But whenever they’re together, whenever the kid stays over – and whenever Sonny isn’t there – Dean shaves with the bathroom door open. Sometimes the kid stays in the bedroom, but mostly he comes in. He’ll stand just inside the doorway and chat, or he’ll sit on the lid of the toilet, or perch on the edge of the bathtub. It’s as if they’ve been doing it forever. The kid watches closely everything Dean does, the brushes and the aftershave and the creams and everything. He’s fascinated, and Dean doesn’t know how to deal with that. Sometimes, meeting his eye in the mirror, Dean smiles or winks or sticks out his tongue. The kid smiles back, but sometimes he blushes and has to look away. Dean doesn’t know how to deal with that, either.

vi.  
Maybe five months after Jerry’s birthday, he stays over in Dean’s room. He sleeps on the couch. In the morning, they sit together and eat breakfast in their underwear. Jerry talks about Patti, the girl he’s courting. He tells Dean he knows it’s so soon, but he loves her a lot and wants to marry her. Dean sees how his eyes light up and hopes it all turns out well. He doesn’t comment on the fact that she’s older, Italian, and a singer to boot. It’s warm out, and they’ve got the window open, letting a nice cool breeze play across their skin.

“You got a window that works this time?” the kid declared last night. “You’re movin' up in the world, boy!”

Breakfast finished, Dean wipes his face with the back of his hand.

“I oughta shave,” he says, more to himself than the kid.

Jerry gets on his knees on the couch. He holds Dean’s head and rubs their faces together. “Ugh! Scratchy.” He pouts, and Dean chuckles.

“C’mere.” He leads Jerry into the bathroom; Jerry goes willingly enough, trotting curiously along with his hand comfortably swallowed up in Dean’s paw. He goes to sit on the edge of the tub, but Dean stops him, manoeuvres him to the sink. He slips his hands under Jerry’s arms – trying to ignore the way the ribs stick into his palms – and boosts him on to the porcelain. He’s impossibly light.

“Dean, what—”

But Dean hushes him. What is Jerry, really? As much as Dean suspects that the kid knows a little more about the world that he probably should, he is after all still a kid. Dean can’t talk. He fell in with the wrong crowd when he was Jerry’s age. Younger, even. He was beat up, cussed out, cheated and robbed, and for what? To finally get out, to get away from all that – after a little convincing from his buddies – and to make something of himself. Same goes for the kid, he figures. Maybe it was worse for him. Dean may have been with the wrong crowd, but at least he _had_ a crowd. Who did the kid have? His grandmother, but not forever. Some girl he spoke of kindly, like an older sister, but not really a friend. And now he has Dean, and isn’t that a scary thought? God help him, the kid looks up to him. _Remember that, Dino_ , he cautions, and lets his mind wander to his childhood, aged five or younger, watching in undisguised awe as his father unfolded a thin silver blade and swept it easily against a stranger’s cheek. The first time he’d seen that cruel glint of metal, Dean had been terrified that its swift motion would be followed by a spurt of scarlet, and he almost flinched; but then the white cream was gone, leaving behind smooth tan skin. He was mesmerised, and later thrilled when his father handed him his own razor to try.

He hopes the kid will feel the same.

Dean wets a towel with near-scalding water from the tub faucet and pats his face. Then, he takes his shaving kit from the toilet tank and shows Jerry the creams and brushes, and the small black box that conceals the razor. Their heads gently knock together as they lean in to inspect the contents of the bag. Dean takes out a tub of cream and, with a small soft brush with a wooden pommel that fits neatly in his palm, he wipes the thick white substance on his cheeks, his throat, under his nose. He wipes the residue on a towel, which he drapes over the kid’s knee, and then he removes the box. Handing it to Jerry, he sees the kid hesitate.

This kid. Skinny and long, wide-eyed, anxious. Half-naked.

Dean steps between his thighs. “Okay?” he asks.

Jerry nods, mouth clamped shut. Dean shows him how the box slides open and sees the kid’s eyes sparkle as Dean unfolds the blade.

“Are you sure?” The whisper is so awed, so tremulous, and Dean feels something like a hand around his heart.

“Sure I’m sure.”

Jerry takes the razor. Dean thinks he deliberately lets his fingers slide along his hand, but he doesn’t mind. The tremble in his voice alarmed him a little, but the hand that holds the blade is steady. Dean tells him the names of each part – the shoulder, the spine, the tang, the scale, all of them – knowing Jerry will learn fast and remember always. He shows him how to fold the razor back on itself so he can rest his pinkie on the tang when it protrudes, to put his thumb beneath the blade and sit his other fingers on the shank and shoulder.

“Okay?” Dean asks again.

“Sure, Dad,” Jerry says mildly.

Dean blinks. He thinks ‘Dad’ is all right. He thinks ‘Dad’ is better than whatever else the kid might want to call him. He holds Jerry’s hips, pretends not to hear his soft gasp, and smiles gently at him. With a squeeze, he nods encouragingly.

Jerry steadies himself against Dean’s shoulder, pointedly avoiding his eyes. Dean tilts his head. Swallowing, wetting his lips, the kid brings the edge to Dean’s cheekbone, pauses, and then slowly brings it down, shaving maybe an inch. He hesitates. Dean speaks soft, tells him how slow to go, how much to take. The pink tip of the kid’s tongue peeks between his lips and, frowning, he continues. The blade tugs gently at Dean’s skin, whispers down his cheek. Jerry wipes the razor on the towel then touches Dean’s hair; Dean moves his head, and then the cool metal touches his throat. The kid’s fingers are on his shoulder; they squeeze, let go, and he whispers something. Dean swallows, feels the blade shift and stutter at his Adam’s apple. Jerry utters a frightened little gasp, so Dean holds his hand. He helps the kid make the first hesitant swipe on his neck. They pause. Jerry shuffles forward on the sink; Dean feels his feet brush his calves, sending ripples of gooseflesh up his legs, his back, all the way to his scalp, where his hair stands on end.

 _Too close_ , he thinks, but the kid’s too focused to realise. 

Soon, the kid’s shaved the entire left side of Dean’s face and all of his neck. He giggles a little when his friend stretches his mouth to help him get all the stubble, but then he’s serious again, and the blade goes to work on the other cheek. He’s in a rhythm now – Dean suspects he feels better about the cheek than the throat – and in no time at all, Dean’s face is clean. He gently takes the razor from his friend’s hand. They smile at each other, and Dean touches his face, just for a second. Then he collects cold water in his hands from the tub faucet and washes off any excess cream. He pulls out his aftershave, pours it on his hand, rubs them both together, and coats his cheeks, his throat. Then he grins at Jerry.

“Still scratchy?”

He holds Dean’s head and rubs their faces together. “Nope.” Then he slobbers on Dean’s cheek. Dean cries out, shoves him away laughingly, while the kid splutters and wipes his tongue. “Ugh! Your aftershave’s disgusting.”

“Serves you right,” Dean says, tossing the towel at the kid’s head. Jerry hops off the sink and hurries past Dean into the bedroom, already chattering about something new. He’s really talking, rattling off at breakneck speed, every bit the nine-year-old.

_Sure, Dad._

Dean laughs. The kid pulls a face.

“Are you makin’ fun of me?”

“No.” Dean smiles. “You called me ‘Dad’ a while ago, that’s all.”

“I did?” The kid’s eyes do this strange little swivel. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s all right.” Dean goes to him, pulls him into a hug. The kid hugs back, turns his face into Dean’s neck.

Dean thinks about the kid’s curiosity, about piggyback rides and hugs so tight they could break ribs. He thinks about sweets and milkshakes and missed birthdays. He thinks about falling asleep curled up in an older man’s lap. He thinks about an Italian girl getting notes and gifts from a skinny kid who can’t sit still. He thinks about all of this and more. Mostly, he thinks about Jerry.

_Christ do I think about Jerry._

“I’ll be Dad if you want.”


End file.
